


An ode to needles and surgeons

by worddumb



Series: Wonderful World Of Blocks and Warts [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: And NeedlesTW, Anxiety, Anyways, Bad Humor, Gen, George not having a tag is perfect and I hope he never gets one, Is descriptions of cut muscle and counting of bone fragments gore?, Mild Gore, Should the rating be mature? Idk, Sunsets, Sweet Ending, Weird Fluff, What Is Sweetness If Not Saving Someones' sorry ass from death, Yes this is how I start the tagline. It's the worddumb difference, ah also, based on online personas, edit: i was A Fool and George probably had one even at the time of writing. that's bullshit, if so, that's it that's the story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22815460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worddumb/pseuds/worddumb
Summary: And weird friendships, made along the way(pls check the tags before reading, it's crucial)
Series: Wonderful World Of Blocks and Warts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713742
Comments: 13
Kudos: 62





	An ode to needles and surgeons

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely apologize that this is what my mind comes up with when I find people I like on YouTube, and if said people are upset with this in any, even the mildest way, I shall see myself out (aka, delete this)  
> But like, it's not real or even based in reality, not as much as that frozen plot I came up with at least and that shit was all about time travel, personal growth/pain/fun shit like that and was dark as hellllllllll, giving me a whole existantial crisis to solve  
> I swear, spelling and story is way more coherent than this, sorry for taking your time!

When George finds him, Dream’s bleeding out in the morning sun like a baroque painting, his enemy a pile of damp ashes and items just beside him. It’s a lot like the other time, really, except then Dream had enough energy to throw an enderpearl and a couple of quips upon seeing George come closer. Now, he just lays there, conscious but delirious from pain the gash in his leg is no doubt causing, and glares in Georges’ general direction with unseeing eyes. Worrisome, to say the least. 

“What have you gotten yourself into this time, jeez”.

Mumbling to himself as he moves closer, George is still cautious. Not in vain, since it’s Dream he found actively dying and clutching at a sword like a lifeline: an attempt for his shins is swift and immediate. Also pointless, what with the distance between them being three blocks. 

“Come on Dream, it’s just me, I’m not dangerous”. 

The irony of the statement, or some other literary thingy appropriate, isn’t lost on George, and he almost does jazz hands as he speaks to seemingly no one, Dream too distracted by cursing. From pain or from failure remains unclear. 

Either way, now he’s in range if Dream decides to swing again. The hairs on his nape stand up as he crouches, reaching a hand for Dreams’ bright hair, knowing his actions are stupid and if he gets killed it’ll be his fault, but Dream doesn’t strike. Not even as he passes through the green mop on his head a couple of times, back and forth, circling around and tagging ever so lightly, action as pleasant as it is baffling. Instead, he only cusses through gritted teeth. So George is probably safe. 

Zonked by such permissiveness, he drags his hand down to Dreams’ eyes, keeping his head in place with the other, and holds one open. Sure enough, it looks glossed over, too bleary, too bloodshot, and pupil too blown. Kind of mesmerizing, if George was perfectly honest. 

He doesn’t ponder at the effects of high quality Nausea for long, knowing how stressful having someones’ fingers so close to your eyes is. The moment his hold on Dreams’ eyelids weakens, they slam shut. George has to catch a blind swing going for his torso a mere second after that happens. 

His palm bleeds a little from the contact. 

Moments like this always made him kind of sad he and Dream are technically deathly enemies. 

“Wow, Dream, that was rude”. 

“Oh fuck you”. 

The words are labored as Dream half-heartedly attempts to free his sword from Georges’ block before falling limp. As limp as his perpetually tense ass ever does plus injury and a death grip on a piece of diamond, but at least he stops struggling, so, limp. 

With a sigh and a ‘ _you’re_ so _annoying_ ’ George sets the arm down gently. No response. Well, that’s Dream for you: through another long suffering sigh, George gets a small first aid kit out of his backpack and squints inside. 

First, a milk pill. Of all things, it’s the one he anticipates to be the most troublesome, since he needs to make Dream eat it and Dream is nothing, if not stubborn. Still, George decides to have some fun with it, mainly for the sake of his frayed nerves. “Open wide!” 

Surprisingly, Dream complies with the sarcastic request pretty much unthinkingly. Not one to look a gifted horse in the mouth, George puts the pill in. 

Dream bites down on his fingers like a meek, but rabid dog. 

“Hey! Ouch!” 

Then laughs, pained and sonorous. A pout George had doesn’t hold up to the bastardly energy. 

“Okay, I’m gonna anesthetise you for that”. 

The expression on Dreams’ face morphs into one of fear. His grip on the sword gets even tighter, if that’s possible. 

“I’m joking, that was a joke. I won’t do that”. 

The weariness doesn’t disappear, but at least it’s not near terror it was before. “Okay, okay, I get it, you’re not kill me, just, leave me alone okay?” 

Letting out a weak laugh at the misspeak, George puts a hand next to Dreams’ head, close enough for him to roll on if he wants to. Throws a glance at the injury. The injury throws one back with it’s startling white of the shattered tibia. “Yeah, no, I’m not gonna do that too”. 

“Why though?” 

A good question. It sends George reeling back, though now he’s just frozen. Not like he knew why he was helping someone, who was supposedly his nemesis, it just felt like the right thing to do- now that he thinks about it, a valid reason neither of them managed to kill the other yet- can’t be that he cares, or likes their squabbles that are more spars now than the cutthroat murder happy death sprees before, can’t be he thinks of Dream as a friend- 

“Cause you’re my friend, duh”. 

Well that’s autopilot for you. 

Something pressed on his hand. ‘Something’ turns out to be Dreams’ head, his neck muscles obviously relaxing and expression looking somber for just a second, before a small, but largely bastardoues smile takes it’s rightful place. “You know what, now I want that anstesia bullshit just to get away from you”. 

Making a show out of eye rolling, George feels his shoulders slack. “Yeah, sure, that’s exactly what it’s for, to save you from such a horrible, gross me with feelings you don’t like so much”. 

“Yeah! Totally. Friendship is for losers, George. I don’t do friendship. I can definitely love and care about people without that yuk, right? I absolutely can. So you’re not my friend”. 

“Uh-huh, sure”. 

All truth be told, George absolutely isn't paying attention, too focused on first getting gloves, then a syringe, then the anesthetic, but rambling seems to be helping Dream relax so he might as well. 

Slow and steady, he lifts the syringe and clatters the bubbles. A stutter, though well disguised, interrupts Dreams’ monologue. Is he scared of needles? Probably not, he basically hugs with cacti. 

Unrelated, back to the important stuff. 

Having puffed the air out already, without paying attention which admittedly wasn’t smart but he’ll reflect on it later, George puts his hand back on Dreams’ head. Might’ve interrupted a deep discussion of feelings, the way people express them and some pleading, which was the most surprising, mid-sentence, but he wasn’t listening either way, so he doesn’t feel too bad. 

Maybe just a little. 

“I got it ready already-“, he was interrupted with a huff, now they were even, “-now it’s your turn. Get ready Dream”. 

It’s all slightly sing-song, and it doesn’t do a great job at concealing the tension in his voice, but it still puts who it needs to put at ease. At relative ease, at least, since well, the insides of Dreams’ leg are still showing and he can’t be exactly sure this isn’t all a plot for George to get him killed. Better than nothing, George guesses as he finds a vein on Dreams’ sword hand with a quick look and actually manages to ease the sword out of it. Very easily, too. 

Before he can even think about actually putting the needle in though, he needs to somehow stop the shaking. Bonus points if he manages to do it without restraints. He inhales, hoping some ideas might come with the bloody air, or that he’ll at least calm down enough to start having some of his own. 

Predictably, it doesn’t help. 

“You okay?” 

Dreams’ unsure, trembling voice snaps him out. It’s pained, and George realizes he got used to that, tuned it out. It feels wrong. 

“Hey, I’m the one bleeding out here, please!..” 

Yes, he is, and George tried to forget it, he isn’t being useful, he needs to get it together and do his thing, why is he so overwhelmed all of a sudden, it shouldn’t be that way- something touches him. 

“Hey, please”. 

Slow and steady. Dream’s shaking, a lot, and so is he. Wow. The strength of this man- 

“Thanks, Dream”. 

Slow and steady, still shacking a little, George lifts his hands back up, letting Dreams’ slip off. Another inhale of air, still smelling of blood and death, but this time, he doesn’t push it away. Fear is all about lack of control, after all, and he has all the control, and shares it with Dream because otherwise he’d be an ass. 

Filled with newly found self-assuredness, he puts the syringe in his other hand and puts the now empty one next to Dreams’ head. Without wasting a beat but with a whimper, Dream rolls right onto it, and George only lingers a bit before going back to the exact pets he did before. 

“Sorry about that”. 

“It’s okay”. 

Dreams’ fake ass laugh would suggest otherwise. Not saying anything, George just looks at him with a delicate mix of ‘sorry’ and ‘you’re lying’, and the familiarity if nothing else seems to humble him. 

“Yeah, maybe it was not okay. Still not your fault”. 

“Not yours either”. 

“Well I wasn’t thinking about that before now”. 

Another look. 

“Okay, maybe I was. Now I just think about it more actively, just to piss you off”. 

Usually, that goes unsaid, as Dream speaks mainly in sarcasm on a good day. Right now though, both of them are so anxious memories feel hardly relevant, so George is grateful for the reminder, as crooked and as Dream as it is. 

Then, he takes a look at the syringe. 

Yep, definitely brushed ground along the way, he’s getting murdered for his troubles tomorrow. 

“I’ve got horrible news”. 

“Please, please for the love of god, no”. 

“I have to make another anesthetic”. 

“Oh for fu- huuuuh”. 

“Yeah. I’ll be quicker this time, so… Could be worse?” 

“Certainly”. 

“Sorry”. 

Instead of responding, Dream just falls completely limp against his hand, trapping it effectively. 

“Hey, I need that”. 

“No, it’s mine now, I deserve _some_ compensation for your horrible healthcare”. 

For the next second, it really is, along with Georges’ unimpressed (read- fake) glare. After that though, George is given full free range again, and he sets off to change his gloves and do all the other fun stuff like he’s speed. 

A good anxiety attack hits stronger than that stuff either way. 

Probably. 

True to his word, George only takes half the time. Hurrying so much is bad and he knows it, but well. Not like he has a choice. 

Of other differences, he actually pays attention to a silent, but intent Dream, who just, shakes, breathes and mutters while staring at Georges’ hands. Quench thine fear by familiarising thineself with it, or something along those lines, if he has to guess. 

It doesn’t take him long to find the vein again, but this time, he presses the syringe against Dreams’ palm instead of just staring at it all helplessly. For all that he knows, it’s working, since neither of them is descending into panic this time and the shaking is minimal, so he finally pushes the needle in. 

“I’ll need you to count from ten, by the way”. 

Dreams’ head falls along with his whole upper body, relaxing. Instead of complying, he lets out a breathless laugh, filled with so much relief it almost makes George fall too. 

“Seriously?” he asks, before falling even limper. 

Yes, because George didn’t think Dream would freak out if he had nothing to do or if he felt like George still didn’t have it together. 

Maybe he did. 

There’s absolutely no need to make this any harder for Dream than it already is, so the implications don’t matter, not even to Dream if his reaction is anything to go by. 

Back to the point, the point being, Dream just went under in the most Dream way he could and now George has to deal with his heavy ass laying too close to someone else’s death, that started decomposing already. There was a lovely oak nearby, so why not have a complicated surgery that definitely needs more tools than he has in his kit, there? 

Actually, he thinks as he readjusts Dreams’ weight to work well with said kit, he probably does have enough considering he’d have enough for himself. Digging in someone else’s leg with your hands and a couple pincers is probably easier than in your own, right? 

A lot more responsibility, but at least he can both not feel pain and feel what he’s doing. That’s how that works, he thinks. 

Whatever. 

In order to escape any further rumination, he hums at first, soon starting to sing out loud. Isn’t sure what he’s singing but enjoying the ‘not feel horrible’ aspect of it thoroughly, George added a small bounce to his step before remembering that his passenger might loose a bone fragment. Yeah, that would make rearranging it about as easy as a tiny lego with a missing piece. 

He will notice if that happened though, song or no song, and has an antiseptic strong enough to clean it after brushing against grass without horrible consequences. He’s awesome like that. 

Plus, here he was under the tree, all of Dreams’ tibia intact! Pondering is the worst, so much baseless shit flying around, the actually important parts skips your mind. 

How is he supposed to set both Dream and the kit down without damages to both anyways? 

The kit can probably go first. George crouches, letting it drop when he deems the spacing best it can currently be. There are no shattering noises or anything like that, and Dreams’ leg didn’t even brush the ground, so his judgment is proven correct. 

Laying Dream down is a bit funkier than that, and George doesn’t let his injured leg lay along with him. Which is finicky, if only because he can’t just hold it by the shin. While he’s busy keeping that balancing act, his other hand is busy yanking out a medical sheet. 

And now he has to tuck it under Dreams’ leg, somehow. 

Also ignoring the fact he’s still using gloves he put on when making the second dose of anesthetic. 

He groans. 

“You’re so troublesome, Dream, like what the hell”. 

There’s a solution, though it’ll take a lot of fumbling and skill. Maybe some luck. A bit of urgency would probably be good too. 

Shaking the sheet straight and throwing it between the leg and the rest of the world, he sets the leg down on it, as crumpled as it is. Tugs the gloves off and puts a tiny head lamp on, the one he always has on him after that one cave accident. 

This time, he uses the antiseptic. 

He should’ve done that earlier too. 

Well that ship has sailed, no use crying over it, so he groans as he puts a surgical mask on instead. Some more antiseptic to apologize for his unsanitary crimes and a third pair of gloves kinda make up for that, better late than never and all, so George doesn’t feel too bad. 

Careful, he tugs on the opposite corners of the sheet. Now he has a work bench! He sets it appropriately, pincers, scalpels and all that fun stuff laying nicely on the edge of the cloth he deems the cleanest. 

With all that sorted, he can finally get to the good stuff, the stuff that really leaves no room for thought with how precise he has to be, so he wiggles a bit to celebrate that and just maybe just comfort himself just a little. 

Either way, he’s already got all he needs by his side, so George simply leans in and squints. 

The damage looks arguably better from this perspective. 

Seven fragments, three big and four small ones, a nightmare really but the knee is not grazed. Tibialis is cut entirely, which is worse but will heal as long as George attaches it correctly. No other muscle is hurt, the cut is almost vertical and not horrifically deep after all. There’s pretty much zero fat and, if the soreness of the muscle is anything to go by, some dehydration on top of that. 

On the rationale of being friends, Dream _will_ have to seat through a lecture when this is over. 

Back to the topic, clotted blood, a lot of it, and even some weak oozing from under all the mess. George’ll probably have to reattach quite a few blood vessels, as well as do _a lot_ of cleanup. 

At last, he deems himself ready. Sometimes, he forgets how capable and skillful, or in Dreams’ case, full of surprises he is, and then shit like this happens: with that thought, George finally lets himself go into the familiar hold of surgeon trance. 

_______

He’s almost halfway done with the reconstruction when Dream wakes up. Because of course, Dream _would_ wake up, the living antonym of convenience that he is. 

“Where sword?” 

And of course, these are his words. George finishes reattaching the small piece of tibialis he’s been working on before even thinking on the reply, somewhat bothered by the distraction. 

In place of words, he just puts a spare scalpel he got out just in case in Dreams’ lax hand. With the help of some magic, his patients fingers manage to curl around the handle. 

“Thank”. 

Some quiet. George connects another minuscule piece of muscle to the newly rearranged and heldtogether by an absorbable string bone. 

“Srry”. 

The sentiment is nice, but distracting. 

“Go to sleep”. 

The rest of the operation he goes undisturbed. What’s with Dream and randomly complying to commands, George would’ve never thought the arrogant bastard could submit to anything, but his own scattered thoughts. Oh well, everyone has the right to be full of surprises. 

_______

By the time he’s done, it’s dusk. Setting camp right here and now, around Dreams’ good as dead patched up body, seems like a smart idea, if the only one available. After all, he can’t be the one putting Dream in danger by not sleeping, not when they’re friends, which frankly feels ridiculous to think. 

A quick run to his backpack and back brings night just about half a minute closer, and George can’t help sputtering- he also has to set the tent, eat food, and somehow fall asleep. It was hard enough even on it’s own, pills or no pills, additional adrenalin be damned. 

Whatever. 

Setting the backpack down, George unfastens his tent off the back of it, pointedly avoiding looking in Dreams’ direction as he does so. He doesn’t really remember having many friends, having been sheltered for the first few years of his life and a scavenger in the vast, blossoming wasteland of Minecraft, so the task is harder than it’s ought to be. 

What does he even do with this development? Sure, he has people he likes, like Sapnap, but he didn’t have constant fights-to-the-death with him before they formally met, nor did he save him from one such death despite such debacles. He only ever learned Dreams’ name after a whole month of run-ins! On about the third one? Forth? Second? 

Doesn’t matter now, what matters is, be friend with Dream how? A lot of communication, probably. 

With all the thinking he’s been doing, having unconsciously started staring at Dream slumber halfway through, George didn’t even notice he’d set camp already. Even the campfire was out and about already, crackling and orange as any fire one might automatically light. A fair distance from his new friend, who may or may not try to strangle or at least slap him in the morning, too. 

Great, he has to carry this aggressive piece of meat now. 

He’s too exhausted for this. 

Still, he carries- not drags, carries, he’s responsible like that- Dream into the tent. It’s a bit cramped for two, and Dream makes some semi-awake noises, but all in all, Georges’ muscles don’t rip under the unbearable weight and there is some space left for him. Not too horrible, just horrible enough to be… Worth it? Doesn’t really feel worth it. Doesn’t feel like a dumb waste of time and recourses either. Jeez, this whole day’s such an enigma to him it’s not even funny. 

After settling the source of all his emotional turmoil into his bed, George sits next to the tree and faces the sunset. His stomach decides it’s not time to relax just yet, though, and reminds him he just sat stitching someone up for ten hours. 

The noise he makes at that is unclassifiable, not a grunt, not a whine, and not quite in between. It’s a mental key-smash, he thinks as he goes for his food stash. Might as well get his smoker out and make some more, so he doesn’t end up like a certain reckless someone. 

Cooking, after a whole day of complex labor, feels both too hard and too easy, but at least he finally realizes how he feels about the whole today thing. For one, he’s proud of himself, he can feel that plain as day now that some of his anxiety wore off, and for the other he kinda wanted to befriend Dream for ages now, so he couldn’t be happier! 

Granted, he’s only realizing it in retrospect, having actively blocked out the strong desire to befriend before now. In his defense, who’d’ve thought something as amazing as today could ever happen, nerve-wracking and physically taxing as it was? At least it isn’t monetarily quantifiable, just like all the best things that ever happened to him! A good omen, if he does say so himself. 

With a satisfied sigh, he finally relaxes against the tree and starts eating, pills at the ready and the setting sun beautiful on the horizon. The best kind of therapy, he thinks as he arches the back of his head into the wood, overcame with a sudden desire to hug the entire world. Head filling with general pleasant nonsense he’s come to know and love, he really feels like he’s definitely done the best thing he could, and that’s the best lullaby he could ask for. 


End file.
